


Right and Wrong

by TheFlashFic



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: AU, Criminal Foggy, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4822616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlashFic/pseuds/TheFlashFic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen meets Foggy Nelson, he breaks Foggy’s wrist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Right and Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt at Daredevil fic. Thank you kindly in advance.

The first time the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen meets Foggy Nelson, he breaks Foggy’s wrist.  
  
It’s inadvertent. At least Matt thinks so, but perception can be strange during fights. Matt only knows that there are six of these guys, and the crates they’re unpacking are heading to Fisk’s warehouses. Drugs, probably, weapons. Whatever. He doesn’t really care too much. They’re Fisk’s guys, that’s all he needs to know.  
  
He doesn’t know Foggy’s name, of course, he just hears the small gasp of recognition that means Matt’s been spotted on his perch. Matt goes into action without a single thought, moving on reflex, grabbing the guy’s arm as he lands from the top of the shipping crate, and wrenching his hand upward to knock whatever metal he’s aiming Matt’s way out of his grasp.  
  
He doesn’t intend to break the guy’s wrist specifically, but he can hear the crunch that says it happened. Whatever his victim was holding makes a hollow clatter on the cement. Not a gun, not a knife. Matt can’t worry about what it is because the rest of the lackeys have been alerted and they’re coming at him fast.  
  
He deals with them relatively quickly, only one knife gash in the thigh to complain about, though  one man got in a kick to his midsection that’s going to leave him sore for a day or two. In the end Matt is still standing, and no one else is. So it’s a good fight.  
  
He just has to call the cops in to clean up the mess and deal with whatever’s packed into these crates. He can make out the scent of coffee grounds, which is an old but effective trick for covering up other smells. It affects border dogs, it affects Devils. If the details mattered to Matt, he’d stay long enough to open one.  
  
But details don’t matter. Fisk wants this, which means all Matt has to do is make sure he doesn’t get it.  
  
He’s feeling good as he makes his way back to his crate to get away from the scene before the sirens become audible. But a voice stalls him, fists his hands and makes his shoulders clench.  
  
“We’ve heard about you.”  
  
It’s the first guy. The one whose wrist he probably broke. Matt hesitates, because the guy sounds pained but almost conversational beyond that. Casual.  
  
He turns in the direction of the voice, lifting his chin and speaking gravely in Daredevil voice. “Then you can tell the rest of Fisk’s men that the stories are true, and that they should be pre--”  
  
“Hey, so, just curious, but you basically assaulted six guys. You’re not police, you weren’t in danger. So just how does that work?”  
  
Matt frowned, sensing a stall. “How does what work?”  
  
There’s a shift, faint, the rasp of denim against concrete. The guy’s folding his legs in front of him where he sits propped up against the side of another packing crate.  
  
“I mean you’re the vigilante, the Devil. You stop lawbreakers. But you just broke way more laws than we did. So what’s the reasoning here?”  
  
Matt’s taken aback. His heart's still beating fast from the leftover adrenaline, and the last thing he wants is to get into a conversation with some dock creep doing Fisk’s dirty work. He’s not worried about whether the guy’s just stalling him - he’ll hear anyone coming way sooner than he would need to to get away - but it still makes him turn away without answering.  
  
“I’m just lookin’ for advice, man,” the guy calls after him. “Tell me which laws are okay to break and which ones aren’t. Guy’s gotta make a living, and I think you just ended my piano-playing days.”  
  
Matt takes a running start and springs himself up on the shipping crate, catching fingertips on the top edge and hauling himself back to the roof easily. There’s a faint, surprised gasp from below him.  
  
He springs to his feet on the tin roof, hesitates, but looks back in the stranger’s direction and answers tersely.  
  
“Any law you break for Fisk is not okay.”  
  
There’s a sound, a snort. Laughter.  
  
Matt tries not to feel sheepish as he moves across the crate to leap to the next in line, and the next. He makes his getaway fast and smoothly.  


 

* * *

  
  
There’s a tiny story in the news about the bust the next day. Matt listens to it via laptop as he makes his morning coffee. Unidentified suspects, unidentified contents being smuggled in, unidentified tip to police, and Matt knows that by the time he gets to his office an unidentified benefactor will have bailed them all out.  
  
It’s useless, it feels like. He’s spending his nights doing what amounts to blowing raspberries at a man who’s richer and more ingrained into Hell’s Kitchen every day.  
  
He wants to ask what the point is sometimes, but there’s no one to ask. Karen’s got her own demons. Claire will just get mad along with Matt. Stick, maybe, if he ever makes another appearance. Stick, the guy who trained him for the front lines, he can ask: what’s the point of waging an endless war against an unstoppable force?  
  
He won’t stop, though. Whether he ever gets an answer or not. The only alternative to fighting this war is not fighting it, and that’s the one thing he can’t do.

 

* * *

  
  
The second time the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen meets Foggy Nelson, Foggy ends up taking a bullet in the shoulder.  
  
It’s not Matt’s fault. Matt isn’t armed with a gun. He’s never armed with a gun. If someone drops a gun near him, he kicks it away. Guns are not in Matt’s code, and he has absolutely nothing if he doesn’t have the moral code that allows him to keep some tiny shred of his soul as he does the Devil’s work.  
  
So of course Matt doesn’t fire the shot that hits Foggy (whose name Matt still doesn’t know at this point). But it’s Matt that dives out of the way the moment he hears that telltale click of a trigger being pulled. And apparently it’s Matt’s dive that puts the bullet into the path of Foggy’s shoulder.  
  
He doesn’t realize it’s the same guy as the wrist incident until a voice hisses out, “Oh, this is worse. Oh this is so much worse than the last time.”  
  
Matt recognizes that voice, and for a moment it makes him hesitate. But only a moment, and then he’s racing towards the gunshot’s origin, dodging a second bullet before flattening the skinny beer-reeking punk who fired. His fist finds the guy’s hair, the guy’s head finds the concrete in a satisfyingly hard thump, and the guy’s out cold.  
  
Matt straightens, listens. Four heartbeats slowed by unconsciousness, one wild and thready from pain and shock.  
  
He turns towards that last one.  
  
The guy backs away, feet dragging rasps against the ground. “Should’ve listened to you the first time, I guess,” he says, voice thin and scared.  
  
Matt regards the general direction of him, something he knows is intimidating when he’s in full costume. “I hope you don’t really play the piano,” he says, his voice cool.  
  
The guy laughs, a nervous burst of sound. “Always been meaning to consider thinking about starting,” he says. “Scratch that off the bucket list, I guess.”  
  
Matt smiles faintly.  
  
It’s strange, but this man is the first friendly voice he’s heard on his nightly activities in...quite a while. He’s not really friendly, of course. Just shocky, or maybe he uses humor as a defense. Still. It makes Matt hesitate. He hasn’t called anything in yet, but those gunshots should attract police soon.  
  
He stares in the direction of that thready heartbeat. “Why do you work for Fisk?”  
  
“Are you hiring?”  
  
He blinks. “Hiring?”  
  
“Then hold off on the judging. Fisk pays, and no one else does these days. Fuck, God, this really hurts.”  
  
Matt can hear it, the high whine of sirens. They start up far too close, and he doesn’t have as much time as he wants to get away. There’s nothing to stop this guy from running before the cops arrive: he’s conscious, he’s got his legs under him. But Matt...he feels okay with that.  
  
“You’ve got about four minutes before the cops get here. If you stay they’ll get you to a hospital before booking you. If you go and get to the hospital on your own…”  
  
“They’ll still book me. Gunshot wounds are mandatory reporting.”  
  
Matt almost smiles again, but shrugs. “Might have better luck that way, might not. I’m just giving you your options.”  
  
And he leaves, diving back into the shadows between the buildings, leaping up onto the fire escape overhead and jumping higher and higher, until he’s on the roof and free to run.  
  
Below him is the sound of footsteps, heavy but quick, and cursing as that shoulder wound is aggravated by the run. But Matt’s somehow pleased to hear it anyway.  
  
He’ll sleep with a clean conscience tonight.  


 

* * *

   
  
The third time the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen meets Foggy Nelson, he buys him a breakfast burrito.

  
He’s not the Devil, he’s just Matt Murdock, in workout sweats and a warm coat. He comes into the cafe after his evening at the gym because it’s in the 20s and raining out there, which means crime is at a standstill. But he’s not ready to retire for the night, so a few minutes with a cup of coffee, listening to the outside world, is routine on nights like these.

  
He’s shrugging off his coat when he hears that voice. Though he hasn’t heard it in weeks, he recognizes it. Matt’s memory isn’t exactly eidetic, but it’s good enough to fool people sometimes.

  
“Come on, Helen, one more cup. It’s not like there’s anybody here for me to scare away. You gotta be here anyway, right?”

  
That’s the voice. The broken wrist, the bullet in the shoulder.

  
The answer he gets is tired and not unfriendly, but short. “You know the rules, Foggy. Cup of coffee buys you an hour, that’s it. Pedro’d kick my ass outta here. Buy something, or find another place to spend the night. Be right with you, sweetie, have a seat anywhere.”

  
Matt nods his acknowledgement of that last part, cane sweeping to find the nearest empty booth. He doesn’t need it, but appearance counts.

  
Foggy speaks after a moment, his voice low and more serious than Matt’s heard it yet, even with a bullet inside him. “Look out there, you know I won’t last out in that.”

  
There’s a sigh from the waitress, who sounds too young for how tired she is. “If I lose my job me and Mick’ll be out there with you, that what you want?”

  
Matt sits quietly, gaze aimed out the window needlessly as he listens.

  
There’s a silence, a small puff of breath that sounds defeated. The rasp of fabric sliding across the cheap, cracked old vinyl of the booth seat.

  
“Thanks, Helen,” the man, Foggy, says quietly. He sounds sincere. “I know you gave me more than an hour already. I appreciate it.”

  
He’s trying to make her feel okay about it, now that he’s resigned to go.

  
Matt keeps his gaze pointed towards the coolness from the glass windows, but he hears everything. The waitress, Helen, starts to say something but stops herself, and her sigh is heavy and sad. Foggy heads for the door on dragging feet, like he’s too tired to be moving.

  
Matt knows that feeling.

  
Foggy is just passing him, feet rasping against the linoleum loud as sandpaper to Matt’s ears, when he finds himself speaking:

  
“Excuse me? Do you think you could give me a hand here?”

  
The rasping drag of feet stops. He feels Foggy’s head turn. There’s a beat. His plodding heartbeat elevates slightly. “Oh, sorry, man, sure. Whaddaya need?”

  
Matt holds out the laminated menu with a self-deprecating smile he has only ever used as a mask. “My first time here.” He gestures at his glasses, lifts the cane, shrugs as if he’s self-conscious.

  
He’s never done anything like this sincerely in his life. If he has trouble ordering he asks the staff, though he can always sniff out ingredients and prepared food and just order whatever smells good to him, so it usually isn’t an issue.

  
But Foggy jumps on the excuse to stall his exit. “Oh! Yeah, sure! I mean…” The menu is plucked from Matt’s hand. “Yeah, let’s do this. Let’s get you fed.” There’s a squeaky vinyl slide as Foggy sits down across from him in the booth.

  
Matt hears the waitress, Helen, suck in a breath like she’s going to say something. But she turns instead, becomes footsteps and a clack of china. She really wants to let Foggy have a few more minutes. That tells Matt a lot.

  
“So what am I doing here, man? Just reading the whole menu? Are you looking for recommendations, or craving something, or what?”

  
Matt turns a smile towards Foggy’s voice. It’s his innocent guileless smile, but Foggy’s heart still starts beating a shade faster. Not recognition, Matt isn’t even worried about that. Attraction, maybe. Nothing new.

  
“How about recommendations to start with?” he answers easily.

  
“Oh. Uh, sure. Well, the coffee’s outstanding, though my tastes might be less refined than a guy like you. The omelets are the size of small children, if that’s a selling point. Breakfast burritos are amazing. Burgers aren’t bad. Fries aren’t the best, though. Really, stick with breakfast stuff and you won’t go wrong.”

  
“Great, thanks.”

  
The menu slides back down on the table in a laminated rasp. “No problem.” Foggy’s words are curved by a smile, though Matt hears the tension creeping back in. “Just ask Helen if you need anything, she’ll take care of you.”

  
Another squeak of vinyl as Foggy slides back to the end of the booth. He’s not going to stall further.

  
Matt has no idea what he’s doing any of this for. He meant to get a cup of coffee and spend an hour listening to the streets outside the window to make sure he could safely call it a night. Foggy is a low man in Fisk’s hierarchy, no doubt, he probably can’t tell Matt anything Matt doesn’t already know. It’s not like Matt owes him anything, and it’s sure as hell not like Matt’s the sociable type.

  
But he clears his throat, and doesn’t question himself much as he says, “Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Return the favor, or something.”

  
Foggy hesitates.

  
Matt cues up his self-deprecating smile.

  
“If this is a bluff, I’ll call it. The coffee’s really, really good.” Foggy sounds hesitant, but there’s still a smile in his voice.

  
“Hey, honey, you ready to order?”

  
Matt looks towards Helen’s voice, the strawberry of her shampoo and the mint of her gum. He smiles his court smile, all charm. “Two coffees. Egg white omelet for me. And...breakfast burrito, was it?” He looks across the table.

  
There’s a heavy sigh of upholstery and cheap spongy springs as Foggy settles back in where he’s sitting. “Uh. Sure?”

  
Matt holds his menu out towards Helen. “Breakfast burrito for my new friend here.”

  
“You got it.” Helen’s voice sounds sincerely pleased, and from her shift she and Foggy seem to be making some pretty substantial eye contact as she slowly heads back towards the kitchen.

  
Foggy laughs as she goes, soft. He murmurs towards Matt, “She thinks I’m trying to hustle you.”

  
Matt smiles, genuinely amused by that. “Is she on your side or mine, if you are?”

  
“She gave me a thumbs-up, so either she supports the hustle or she thinks we’re a cute couple.”

  
Matt sits back, quiet for a moment. He can turn to the window and let things go silent, and still do what he came in to do. He doesn’t doubt Foggy will eat in grateful silence if that’s the tone Matt sets. But he finds himself smiling instead.

  
“So what’s your next move, if you’re really trying a hustle?”

  
Foggy snorts. It sounds familiar, like his reaction to Daredevil after his ‘don’t break laws for Fisk’ line the first night they met. There’s nothing snide in the sound. “My next move would be to find a good target. Somehow I get the feeling you’re not an easy mark.”

  
Matt chuckles.

  
Foggy shifts. Slide of sleeve against shirt and tabletop. He’s stretched his arm out. “Foggy.” There’s a beat. “Oh, sorry, I, uh, handshake?”

  
Matt reaches out for Foggy’s offered hand. His fingers are tough with callouses, but his grip is warm and firm. There’s probably not much difference between them there, actually.

  
“Matt.”


End file.
